


Pumpkin Spice Mocha (Arthur Style)

by Candymacaron



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Holidays, M/M, Merlin holidays 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/pseuds/Candymacaron
Summary: When Merlin's worst customer comes in to order coffee on Christmas Eve, Merlin has no choice but to school him on the finer points of making it.





	Pumpkin Spice Mocha (Arthur Style)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moondustings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moondustings/gifts).



> Dear moondustings, I hope you enjoy your gift! I had a lot of fun reading your many lovely prompts, deciding on Merlin as a barista, and Arthur his most annoying customer. I hope their antics bring you a smile this holiday season. <3 <3

Merlin jerks his head up from behind the barista counter. He peers through the glass shop door painted with festive snowflakes, narrowing his eyes at the man opening it five minutes before closing.

Arthur slams the door shut and unbuttons his dark wool trench coat, shaking snow off of the hem with distaste. A plaid scarf coils around his neck, looping in a knot row at the base of his throat. As his frosty blue eyes catch Merlin’s, his lips pull back in a friendly flash of white teeth.

Merlin’s queue has multiplied since dinnertime, spreading like a red-and-green disease that only caffeine can treat. He’s had to mop up one mocha explosion, and no one’s clogged the loo, making this Christmas Eve shift an overwhelming success, in his humble opinion.

Until now. Until, Arthur Pendragon, the most annoying cafe customer in all of human existence.

Merlin breaks Arthur’s gaze and with a long sigh begins his next order. The well-dressed businessman has been coming into to the cafe for six months now. Merlin knows Arthur’s customer loyalty number by heart, and that the corners of his eyes crinkle in a cute way when he smiles. He knows that Arthur works for a firm in a building across the street, and that he always comes in alone during Merlin’s shifts.

Arthur casually strolls behind an elderly couple to become last in queue. The customers in front of him are laden with parcels, all except for Arthur. There is no discernible reason for him to be near his office this late on Christmas Eve, especially if he isn’t out shopping.

The queue, mostly decaf coffee orders, moves quickly. When the elderly couple in front of Arthur reach Merlin, he accidently doles out an extra pound in change. The gentleman corrects him, and the coin rests moist at center of Merlin's palm.

Merlin tosses it back into the register, closing the tray with a clunk. The couple take their to-go cups, leaving Merlin face-to-face with his best-and-worst customer.

The two have a staring match, neither speaking, until the the silence between them grows uncomfortable.

“You’re out late,” Merlin says, his tongue a dry sponge stuck at the back of his throat. “So, what will it be?”

Arthur rocks back on his heels. “I…” he begins, and then frowns, licking his lips as if he’s about to say something very important. The overhead lights catch his face, illuminating in profile the gold of his hair, the regal slope of his nose.

Merlin wants to hear it, whatever horror is coming.

Arthur simply slips his hands into his pockets studying the menu with feigned interest. After a beat, he says in a decisive voice, “I’d like a two-percent milk, extra foam, light whip, triple venti Pumpkin Spice Mocha with extra caramel drizzle and exactly five packets of Sweet’n Low sprinkled over the whip. And make sure the espresso shots are put in one at time. Trust me, I’ll be able to tell if you don’t.”

A sharp laugh escapes Merlin, but there are no other customers left in the shop to hear it. He crosses his arms as he says, “No.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “No?” he repeats.

“You come into this coffee shop twice a week,” Merlin says. “And every time you order a different gut-wrenching coffee concoction no sane person would drink. You’re an absolute pain in the arse, Arthur.”

Arthur shakes his head and smirks. “I’m glad to hear that you think so highly of me, Merlin. Hurry up then, I haven’t got all night.”

“If you want that ridiculous drink so badly, you make it.”

Arthur looks dumbfounded. He studies where Merlin is still standing unmoving, taking in the glistening stainless-steel espresso machine behind him, and coughs.

“Make it? Are you daft?” he says.

“I’m serious,” Merlin says. “If you want that monstrosity, you make it. I’m done.”

“Do you have any idea how much my time is worth?”

“What, afraid you'll mess it up? That you can’t deliver?”

“Something as insipid as coffee?” Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Hardly. I’d prepare it ten times better.”

“Then be my guest. Lose that posh coat of yours and roll up your sleeves, unless you enjoy getting stains on your shirts.”

Arthur raises his chin and shrugs off his coat, hanging it carefully over the lip of a cafe chair. As he rolls his sleeves up in challenge, Merlin tosses Arthur an apron. He motions to the small workspace behind the counter.

“Back this way, to where the magic happens,” he says and wiggles his fingers.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Let’s get this over with. I’m bloody thirsty.”

He loops the green apron over his head and gives the strings a tight knot, sliding his way in. It’s a confined space, and Merlin has to step backward, almost hitting the cash register with his arse to make room.

It’s a strange feeling having his worst customer on his turf. He watches the confidence on Arthur’s face replaced by a green hue as he takes in the intracary of the prep area, the variety of choices.

It took Merlin a full month of training under his supervisor Gwen to get the hang of things. This should be a laugh.

Arthur grabs a takeaway cup from a tilted stack. The tower crumbles under his fingertips, raining cups around the espresso machine.

He opens his mouth, turning to Merlin.

“Nope,” Merlin says. “You’re on your own, mate.”

“I’m not your mate,” Arthur grumbles. He tidies the cups, puts a clean one down, and sulks towards the espresso machine.

The first thing he does is grab a round-bellied pitcher, leaving it on the drip tray before grabbing one of the clean portafilters lined on a drying rack. Merlin's a teeny-tiny bit impressed. Perhaps Arthur’s worked a cafe job before, but this admiration fades once he spots Arthur fishing through canisters of espresso grounds.

“That’s decaf,” Merlin quips, catching Arthur before he wastes perfect product.

Arthur freezes. He puts the container down as if he’s done nothing wrong and finds the correct one sitting next to it. He packs the portafilter, slots it tightly into the machine, and puts the cup under. It takes Arthur a moment to locate the right button, but when he does the espresso machine whirs, taking its time to create the single shot.

Arthur’s overpacked the grounds, Merlin can tell. Solid black flecks dribble out of the side of the portafilter and into the coffee cup.

Arthur either doesn’t care or notice, repeating the process four times.

He looks winded by the time he’s put the final shot in, his brow wet with perspiration. Arthur rubs his forearm across his face, leaving a long brown streak of espresso grounds above his eyebrows.

Merlin leans back on the counter and grins. It’s a good look for Arthur.

“Not bad,” he croons. “Not bad. Why don’t you start on the next bit.”

There’s a mini-fridge under the counter. Arthur promptly grabs the closest thing, nonfat milk—definitely not what he ordered—and pours it into the pitcher. Even though he’s doing it wrong, he looks so determined and, dare he say it, almost sweet, that Merlin can’t help but throw some advice his way.

“You’ll need to add pumpkin spice and cocoa powder to the milk,” Merlin says. “It won’t mix right if you try to stir it in after.”

Arthur pauses, a confused look on his face. “I... thought you weren’t going to help me?”

“You get one expert tip on the house. But that’s it,” Merlin replies.

“Thank you… Merlin,” Arthur says, in an uncharacteristically polite voice.

Merlin shrugs, blushing a little as Arthur goes back to work. Arthur locates the ingredients, shakes too many of each into the milk pitcher, and brings the experiment back to the espresso machine. Tilting the steam wand, Arthur wiggles it into position, and turns it on. His form is terrible, the angle of his wrist all wrong, Merlin thinks.

Milk droplets spray in every direction as Arthur attempts to tilt the pitcher, leaving the front of the espresso machine covered in milky-white dew. When he’s finished, his pitcher is filled with a hot cocoa-smelling concoction with zero foam and the consistency of melted snowman.

Arthur looks at his hard work, frowns, and tosses it into the takeaway cup anyway. “OK,” he says. “Now?”

“Er… if you’re happy with it so far, I guess you can add the whipped cream and sauce.”

Arthur returns to the mini-fridge, producing the whipped cream can. Merlin hops up onto the lip of the cashier counter to give Arthur more space, and watches him shake it. He’s got a tight grip, the muscles in his arm strained.

Merlin swallows, hard. Arthur doesn’t even ask him where the caramel topping is, he just reaches across the workstation and grabs the labeled jug, drizzling a circle over the top of his imperfect creation.

“You have one last step,” Merlin says. He crawls up further on the counter and grabs a handful of Sweet’n Low and chucks them at Arthur. He’s always daydreamed about throwing stuff at his most annoying customer, if he’s honest with himself.

Arthur’s reflexes are fast. He catches three of the packets, the fourth and fifth hitting him square in the face.

“You throw like a girl, Merlin” Arthur says, but there’s no menace in his voice.

Merlin laughs, and Arthur follows suit. He picks up and juggles a packet into his right hand, rips it open with his teeth, and, packet by arduous packet, finishes the job.

With a sigh, Arthur throws out the empty packets and places both hands on the workstation, admiring his handiwork. Merlin can’t help but smile back. Arthur didn’t make his drink perfectly, not even close, but he tried hard.

Merlin hops off the counter, stretches out his knees. He picks up Arthur’s drink and pulls a sharpie from his pocket, writing Arthur’s name on the cup. Arthur stares at his drink, then back at Merlin beside him. Neither speaks, each watching the other with an air of expectation.

“So, you going to try it?” Merlin asks.

“I… well...” Arthur rubs the back of his head.

“Ten times better, you said,” Merlin reminds him.

“Right…” Arthur picks up the cup and cradles it, his smile cooling at the rate of his drink. He takes a testing sniff and, reluctantly, takes a long sip.

“Well?” Merlin says.

“Bloody hell.” Pursing his lips, Arthur puts the cup down as if trying to escape from it. He scrapes the taste off his tongue with his fingers. “That’s horrid.”

Merlin’s face brightens. “Not so easy is it? Requires a certain level of skill to prepare, doesn’t it?”

Arthur shakes his head, still trying to retch the taste from his mouth. “It’s not that. It’s… I never drink these gross things. This tastes like a sweet shoppe wrapped in a diabetic coma.”

“Excuse me?” Merlin says, feeling like the tiny workspace has shrunk even more. “Did you just say you never drink the coffee I make for you?”

“Well.. I,” Arthur fumbles. “No. I usually throw them in the bin afterward.”

Merlin runs a hand through his hair. He shakes his head, huffing out a broken laugh. “Unbelievable.”

“That wasn’t really the point of ordering them—”

“—and what was the point? Wasting my time? It's Christmas Eve, Arthur, don’t you think I have a life?” Merlin snaps. He thinks back to all the orders he’s made in the last few months. The multiple espresso shots. The combinations of flavors that had tortured his mind, not to mention taking up his precious time.

In a small voice, Arthur says, “I wanted to see you. I thought if I made my order time-consuming, I’d, I don’t know, have more time to talk to you. And the longer it took, the longer we seemed to talk. I… I suppose after that everything got out of hand.”

Merlin folds his arms across his chest. He looks at his dirty workstation and Arthur. He’s so disheveled Merlin barely recognizes him, his hair plastered to his forehead at odd angles, shirt rumpled, face and hands gritty.

Arthur takes in the mess too. “I’ll go now. I can help you clean up, first, but if you don’t want me here I understand.”

“Do you even like sugar?” Merlin interrupts.

Without missing a beat Arthur says, “No. I drink black coffee.”

At this Merlin chuckles. “I always knew you were a pretty arse, but I never pegged you as dense. If you wanted my number you could have asked for it. Like a normal person. Without wasting my time and your money.”

Arthur takes in a quick breath. His eyes widen. “Yeah?”

Merlin moves forward, his confidence increasing with each step. Arthur’s eyes widen as Merlin tugs him by his apron, grabbing the back of his head and kissing the whipped cream right off his shocked face.

Before Arthur can gather his breath, Merlin takes arm. He pulls the sharpie from his pocket, uncaps it with his teeth and scribbles something on Arthur’s arm.

“Happy Christmas, Arthur,” Merlin says. “Now promise me, no more crazy drink orders, yeah?”

Arthur licks his lips. He turns his arm, reading the number, Merlin’s mobile number, aloud. “Happy Christmas,” he says, grinning. “I promise, nothing but black coffee from now on.”


End file.
